Malapert
by RobertaWickham
Summary: For the Tumblr prompts that have been going around recently. Courfeyrac exercises his talents, for puns and otherwise.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:** This was originally posted on Tumblr and written for a prompt I got on that site, from AMarguerite. The prompt was "Courfeyrac, Enjolras, malapert."

* * *

"I fully expect our efforts to bear fruit," Enjolras said, as they finished discussing the latest pamphlet they intended to distribute regarding the silk workers' revolt in Lyons.

"So long as that fruit is not another pear," Courfeyrac quipped.

Combeferre sighed, and Feuilly smiled politely, but Enjolras remained impassive. This annoyed Courfeyrac. To goad Enjolras, with a well-placed pun, into a display of temper, was always a pleasure; to win a smile from him was a small but thrilling conquest, a prize that Courfeyrac could quietly clutch to his heart and gloat over for weeks afterwards.

But to be ignored! That was an insult of the most insufferable variety, and Courfeyrac resolved not to brook it for one instant longer. He _would_ make Enjolras laugh—or shout—or pay him _some_ sort of tribute, this evening, or he would go home a failure.

Alas, that task was more difficult today, somehow, than it usually was. When Feuilly spoke of his efforts among his fellow fanmakers, Courfeyrac seized the opportunity to talk of _fanning the flames of rebellion._

No response from Enjolras, though Feuilly was startled into a chuckle.

When Combeferre went off on a tangent about Fourier and his gastronomical obsessions—Courfeyrac was not entirely sure how he got there, but this was Combeferre, who could leap gracefully from the philosophy of governance to the finer points of cookery—Courfeyrac remarked that Fourier appeared to have taken literally the Biblical lesson that the path to success was through the _belly of the beast_. Combeferre was resolutely unimpressed, but he was evidently putting a great deal of effort into remaining so. Enjolras, on the other hand, seemed not even to have heard.

Courfeyrac pouted, and gave up.

As they were leaving when their meeting was over, he felt Enjolras's hand on his arm. They were the last two out the door. Courfeyrac forced a grin. "I think our pamphlet will be helpful in drumming up support," he said. "And I really don't think it will be too dangerous, for us or for the workers who helped us write it—Combeferre is right to be concerned, but you know I think perhaps he worries too much."

"Yes," agreed Enjolras calmly, the corners of his mouth turning upwards, "if we wish to be helpful to those in Lyons, we can't be frightened of any _lions_ we may encounter in our way." At this, Courfeyrac let out a loud, melodramatic groan and made a great show of burying his head in his hands, whereupon Enjolras looked excessively pleased with himself.

Courfeyrac nearly danced all the way home.


	2. Chapter 2

This was for a prompt from Tumblr user thor-broke-the-rainbow-bridge, who gave me the prompt of "malapert" and Combeferre/Courfeyrac.

* * *

"Whatever you're doing, it can't be that urgent."

Combeferre, at his desk, was turned away from the bed where Courfeyrac had flung himself, but he could well imagine how Courfeyrac looked: sprawled, limbs everywhere, hair scattered, mouth curved with mischief.

"I am reviewing the article I wrote for the new pamphlet." Combeferre was aware that he sounded prim and stern, like a schoolmaster in love with propriety and afraid of laughter. He knew, too, that his severity would only prod Courfeyrac to new heights of sauciness, but Combeferre could not regret that.

"Pfft!" Courfeyrac rose from the bed with an audible creak, stomping over to Combeferre's side to loom over him with folded arms and a half-hearted attempt at a serious look. "The new pamphlet! In the first place, my dear Combeferre, even Enjolras doesn't expect to have the new pamphlet ready before next week. In the second place, I can tell you exactly what is wrong with your article, without even reading it. It is beautifully reasoned, but much too mild, much too restrained, much too _correct_. You are always correct. It's your most irritating quality, my friend." With this last sally, Courfeyrac knelt by Combeferre's chair, leaning against his leg.

"And yours is your runaway tongue." Combeferre wished Courfeyrac didn't feel quite so warm and firm.

"You know perfectly well how best to silence me," Courfeyrac murmured, casting his eyes down with an entirely unbelievable show of docility.

Of course, that wasn't true at all. Courfeyrac could tease and taunt and argue with kisses and caresses even better than he did with words.

"Are you trying to annoy me into kissing you?" Combeferre did his best to accompany this question with a frown; he suspected, however, that he had only managed to muster up an indulgent half-smile.

"Well, yes," Courfeyrac admitted, pressing even closer. "I do think it's the best tactic. You enjoy correcting all of us when we go astray. And we rely on you for it. I merely offer you a better method of correction, that's all. Would you leave me in ignorance, when you could show me the error of my ways?" Courfeyrac looked up through heavy eyelashes, his smile beguiling despite its smugness, or perhaps even because of it.

Combeferre surrendered. He slid down from his chair, and allowed Courfeyrac to be as impudent as he pleased, in the language he liked best.


End file.
